The time of the dahlias is here!
It's the winding-down time of the year.
So perfect in their symmetry;
A flower of such nobility!
Their velvet beauty is so great
Their heads are bowing with the weight.
And every year when dahlia's bloom
I'm back within my mother's room.
She had a bowl made out of brass
That shone just like a looking-glass.
Like earrings on a gypsy bride
The handles hung at either side;
Copper with the brass was crafted.
And all the while the sunshine shafted,
Down upon the table shining,
Painting pictures as we were dining.
The polished table picked-up reflections
Enhancing them in all directions.
Our home was neither rich nor grand;
Opulence, you understand,
Was never part of daily life;
My mother was just your average wife.
But when the dahlia season came
Nothing seemed to look the same.
The little room with its central bowl
Took on a sort of regal role.
Surely we were upper class.
With dahlias in a bowl of brass!